sonata. She declared herself
enchanted with her room, and hoped she might wake early, to make the
coming day all the longer.

At ten next morning, Constance was summoned to the upstairs room where
Lady Ogram sometimes sat when neither so unwell as to stay in bed nor
quite well enough to come down. A bad night had left the old lady with
a ghastly visage, but she smiled with grim contentment as her secretary
entered.

"Come, I want you to tell me what you talked about. Where is she now?
What is she doing?"

"Miss Tomalin is in the library, rejoicing among the books."

"She is very intellectual," said Lady Ogram. "I never knew anyone so
keen about knowledge. But what did you talk about last night?"

"Of very many things. Canada and Northampton, religion and crayfish,
Huxley and--Yabsley."

"Yabsley? Who's Yabsley?"

"A gentleman of Northampton, a man of light and leading, a great friend
of Miss Tomalin's."

"An old man, I suppose?" asked Lady Ogram, sharply.

"Not quite thirty."

"But married? Of course married?"

"I didn't ask; but, I fancy, not."

Lady Ogram flushed, and fell into extreme agitation. Why had she not
been told about this Yabsley? Why had not that idiot Kerchever made
inquiries and heard about him? This very morning she would write him a
severe letter. What, May was engaged? To a man called Yabsley?
Constance, as soon as interposition was possible, protested against
this over-hasty view of the matter. She did not for a moment think that
May was engaged, and, after all, Mr. Yabsley might even be married.

"Then why," cried Lady Ogram, furiously, "did you begin by terrifying
me? Did you do it on purpose? If I thought so, I would send you packing
about your business this moment!"

Constance, who had not yet taken a seat, drew back a few steps. Her
face darkened. With hands clasped behind her, she regarded the raging
old autocrat coldly and sternly.

"If you wish it, Lady Ogram, I am quite ready to go."

Their eyes encountered. Lady Ogram was quivering, mumbling, gasping;
her look fell.

"Sit down," she said imperatively.

"I am afraid," was Miss Bride's reply, "we had better not talk whilst
you are feeling so unwell."

"Sit down, I tell you! I wasn't unwell at all, till you made me so. Who
is this Yabsley? Some low shopkeeper? Some paltry clerk?"

The old lady knew very well that Constance Bride would never tremble
before her. It was this proudly independent spirit, unyielding as he